Tomorrow's Diary

John had kept a diary since he was fifteen. A small one that fitted into his breast pocket jammed behind his fountain pen and propelling pencil. Like his school uniform, it carried the smells of chalk and empty inkwells. The tiny page for each day could carry only a few words. At first, notes for homework or changes to the scholastic timetable were all he wrote.

By the time he was halfway through his diary he began to jot down other things: how the weather was, the good mark he got for English, missing the bus or that the school meal was unusually bad that day. He made a habit of reading them each night, while sitting on the edge of his bed, before going to sleep. These short notes he found could generate far more than their sum. A few words could map out a whole incident in holographic detail in his fertile imagination. His sitting on the edge of his bed each night with his diary in hand became his secret joy.

One such night, he finished reading and chanced to notice the page for the following day was deeply indented by his writing. This had not happened before. He peered and saw the indentation did not match what he had written. His bedside lamp was bright and by tilting his diary, just so, he could make out the words. They read:

“Saw her today. We looked at each other and smiled as we passed in the corridor. We both looked back! It was wonderful!”

It was his writing, yet he had no memory of writing it or of the incident? He checked if a page were missing, as if that could explain it away! No, the sixth was followed by the seventh. It made no sense until the afternoon of the next day.

While walking from Science to History, he saw a beautiful girl coming the other way, marching with the rest of her class. Her black hair, dark brown eyes and shining smile came closer and closer. She passed! He turned to look and so did she. He stopped and she walked on, awkwardly, looking backwards until she reached the end of the corridor. When she had gone, he went on with weakened legs through a world no longer the same. It had become a magical place where he might see her again.

Sitting in History, he sneaked his diary below his desk and wrote upon the indentation. That night, while sitting on the edge of his bed, he saw that the words fitted exactly. Her face filled his mind as it had done for most of the day and he was lost in the moment of their first meeting in heart-racing detail. Eventually, he dared to turn to the next page. There was another indentation! He tilted the diary and read:

“Saw her again outside school. Waiting I think. Walked her to her bus and talked. Her name is Doris!”

He hardly slept; rose early, sat dazed through breakfast, rushed to school, and found what was written came to pass. When the closing bell rang, he dashed out of school and found her waiting for him! He walked her to her bus, floating it seemed, as he enjoyed the caress of her eyes while discovering her name.

Travelling home on his bus, he wrote the words that fitted exactly with the indent on the page. That night, while sitting on the edge of his bed, he read them and relived, in holographic detail, their magic time together: heard her voice say his name, felt her eyes upon him. Then he dared to turn the page. Another indentation was already there, he read:

“Asked her for a date on Saturday; she said she’d come! Not soon enough, but soon!”

Next day he asked for a date. She agreed. That night, while sitting on the edge of his bed, he read the words he had written on the way home that fitted exactly with the indentation on the page. He remembered the touch of her hand on his, the electric thrill of it as it travelled to his soul. He smiled then cried. The pain of longing had brought an ache in his heart. It made him turn to the next page where he found yet another indentation. It read:

“Out of her school uniform she was even more beautiful, a grown woman smiling at me? We sat together in the dark cinema with her face lit up by the film I never did see. As my eyes never left her face I thought: How can she be mine? She’s so fine, so wonderful. She deserves better than me, someone twenty times the man I can ever be.”

To save as a memory to last him the rest of his life, he kept his date with her. It was their only date and no more indents appeared in his diary. He dodged and evaded her until she met another. Someone twenty times the man he could ever be; the school captain and leader of the ruby team. He happiness was all he cared about. What was best for her was all that mattered.

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One of the care assistants at the Westgrove Hospice found John lying cold and stiff on his bed, his age-shrunken frame accentuated in death with a small diary clutched in his hand.

Care assistant Doreen pulled the communication cord above his bed. Nurse Phyllis came running, out of breath, and when she saw John, remarked, “He’s gone then. We’d better call, Doctor Johnson.”

Doreen took away his diary. “This was mine you know. The crafty sod took it out of my pocket yesterday.”

Phyllis smiled. “Go on. Admit it. You had a soft spot for him. I shouldn’t have let him off with that.”

“Oh, he was harmless enough. He seemed to treasure it. I found him last night, sitting on the edge of his bed, reading it, smiling away. I didn’t have the heart to take it back.” She flicked though the pages. “The strange thing was when I caught him writing in it, he turned to the next page and read that instead of reading what he had just written. Really weird, I thought, but it seemed to give him a great deal of pleasure.”

Phyllis tucked the coverlet down tight then, as she started to empty his bedside cabin, suggested, “Has he written anything naughty?”

As Doreen read, she replied, “He wasn’t like that, not at all like that! He was a gentleman, bless him. You’ve got a dirty mind, Phil.”

“What has he written, then?” Phyllis fired back.

“Looks like he wrote about his first girlfriend; their first date, that’s all he wrote.”

“…Anything juicy?” asked Phyllis as she stood up with salacious grin.

“No, I told you, nothing like that. It’s sweet. Hey there’s something on the next page, an indentation of some sort. I wouldn’t have thought he had the strength to write that hard. Wait a minute. It doesn’t match the previous page. That must have been what he was reading.” She walked to the window, tilted the diary then read:

“Saw Doris today. She smiled as she walked to greet me from the golden light.”